


Unexpected

by texadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Freeform, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4498461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly surprises Sherlock when she asks him for a favour -one that borders closer to friendship than just colleagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WeLoveSherlolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeLoveSherlolly/gifts).



> Written for welovesherlolly on Tumblr.

Few things in the known world could truly amaze _the_ Sherlock Holmes. Unlike most people, the novelty of science and its seemingly infinite boundaries was rather mundane for the consulting detective. Unexplored galaxies and new synthesized polymers and  the discovery of never before studied organisms from the depths of the coldest oceans, were expected.

Molly Hooper was not.

She had all the markers, initially, of an introverted intellectual. It was clear from the moment he met her that she spent most hours, apart from work, at her flat. She had a cat and loved it dearly. She spent very little of her income on new clothes. Found comfort in familiarity and protection in concealment. She _was_ close with her father, had opposing views with her mother- which contributed to their lack of communication nowadays-, and lacked confidence in most areas, aside from her job.

It was entirely conceivable that throughout Sherlock’s duration at Barts -which come to think of it, had last longer than expected- she would be a suitable associate, and only that.

So it came with great astonishment, that into the eighth year of knowing the mousy pathologist, she did something quite the opposite; she surprised him.

The two associates, as Sherlock found himself reiterating to himself more and more these days, had always stuck to an unwritten, unspoken set of terms. He had free reign to the lab and access to body parts with permission -which never seemed like a chore for either of them- and she could use him whenever she needed to prattle on and on about her daily troubles and inconveniences. He could call or stop by her flat during slow cases or in fits of boredom and she had the authority to hang up or kick him out if such interruptions came at inconvenient hours —most of the time.

He needed her and she was there to help. It was a lovely system. That was, until she showed up at his flat one Sunday afternoon with a request that bordered on friendship.

“Molly?” He held the door open, looking down at her, wearing only an old pair of Uni trousers and a house coat.

“Afternoon, Sherlock.” She strode in casually, as if she always stopped by, unannounced, on Sunday afternoons.

“What are you doing here?” He closed the door behind them and followed her in, hands clasped behind his back.

“I need help moving-” She spun around quickly, nearly causing him to run into her. Her eyes went wide, before she pushed on. “-some new furniture into my flat.”

“You need me to help you move?” The request seemed somehow, preposterous, to him.

“Not _move_ move. Just move some things.”

Sherlock moved his hands in front of him and raised one to his chin. “Why now? Why me?” He seemed put out, as if him being chosen was a punishment.

“After all the favours I’ve done for you, you can’t seriously believe that this isn’t warranted.”

“Favours?” he asked in a hushed tone.

She didn’t hear him though, and waited with her arms crossed and hip bent to one side.

After a minute of intense staring and eyebrow raises, he found himself saying _okay_.

 

Two hours later, halfway up the stairwell to Molly’s 2nd floor flat, Sherlock stopped for a second to rest. He lowered the large cherry oak piece of furniture and rested it against the edge of a step.

“What is this even supposed to be?” he asked over the top of the one of the drawers that kept sliding open and hitting him in the chest. “Didn’t we already carry up your new dresser?”

Molly, who’d chosen the front end and done more guiding than lifting, let out a sigh and shook her head with a disapproving grimace.  

“It’s a vanity table. And it hardly matters what it is if we keep stopping every six steps.”

“A vanity table?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Despite the complex piece of furniture between them, Sherlock’s piss-poor attitude did not go unnoticed.

“Yes. Now lift!”

By the time they reached the front door to Molly’s flat, Sherlock was absolutely shattered. He leaned back against the frame where the mirror would go and rolled his sleeves up his forearm.

“I told you to dress down,” she teased him.

“Not possible,” he added in. “Dress to impress.”

“Impress who? Me?” Molly let out a throaty laugh.

Sherlock joined in for a moment between wheezes and patted Molly on the arm. The frivolent atmosphere didn’t last long though, before the sincere nature of his statement settled in, and an uneasiness encapsulated the hall.

“Help me slide this in?” Molly walked around the four legs of the table and slid felt bases under each of its curved feet. She came to a stop when she reached the back and patted the tabletop beside her.

“Mmm. Yeah -sure.”

Sherlock made his way over beside Molly and rested his hands over the rounded edge. They looked so much bigger next to hers; he could probably cover each hand completely.

They started pushing the table in, going a few feet every time, when Molly stopped, hunched over.

“Sherlock?”

He looked to the side to see a pair of dark eyes staring up at him. “Hmm?”

She nodded her head down to the table where he’d covered one of her hands with his.

“Much bigger,” he uttered.

“Sorry?” Confusion etched its way across every corner of her face, but stopped at her mouth —a slight pull still evident at the corners of her lips.

“I was curious about the size differentiation.”

“Really?” She didn’t believe him. “Now?”

“Yup.”

“But we’re moving a table.”

“We were moving a table,” he corrected her, for no other reason than to stall.

“What are we doing now, then?” She stood up straight and turned towards him, blocking his arm from returning to the piece of furniture.

“Talking,” he answered stoically, like a contestant on Jeopardy. _What is talking_.

She gripped his free arm with her hand and pull it down so they were level.

“And what about now?” she inquired.

_Was this fear or wanting?_ He breathed deeply.  “Very close talking?”

“You sure?”

She didn’t give him time to answer, the circuits in his head taking too long, tripping over her words. She reached over his shoulder with her other arm and placed a hand against the back of his neck, drawing him down towards her.

His lips were cool and dry, but soft to the touch. She leaned into him further as her left arm slid down to where his sleeve had bunched up at his elbow. Their position was a constant struggle, a battle between their conflicting heights. Molly’s feet strained under the weight of her entire body on her toes. Every time she tried to pull him closer, her hands slipped from his neck and over the top of his shoulder blades, down his back.

Sensing her struggle, Sherlock ignored the fact that her _vanity table_ was still partially situated in the hall, and lifted her on top of it.

“Out of breath?” she tempted him, as he swung her legs to the side and leaned up against the wood veneer siding.

He shook his head _no_ , despite a few ragged breaths from their current activity. “I prefer you on this side of the table, actually.” His words were playful, but the way he peered down at her said otherwise.

He took her chin in one hand and ran the other down the back of her head and over her pleated hair. When he reached the small white rubberband holding it together, he dipped his head forward to meet her lips. After giving in for a small peck, she leaned back with her hand splayed out across the table’s surface. A sly grin appeared on her face, baiting him to follow her back.

He’d raised one knee onto the table, hovering above her, when they heard the sound of footsteps coming up behind them. Instinctively, Molly used her hands to push herself forward and off the table, while Sherlock, jolted and caught off balance, fell face first on top.

The steps came around the corner, but with no room to roll on either side of him, all  Sherlock could do was lie there helplessly.

A middle-aged woman carrying two large grocery bags stepped onto the 2nd floor landing. “Need any help, dears?” She shifted her bags to one hand as if to assist.

Sherlock, immobile and unable to see behind him, scooted his lanky torso down the table until his feet reached the floor again. Both Molly and her neighbour couldn’t help but giggle a bit at the sight. Even the children’s cereal box mascot that poked out the top of one of the grocery bags seemed to find the ordeal funny.

“No, we’re fine here.” Sherlock replied. He dusted off his black trousers with two forceful motions.

“Then I suggest you get that vanity inside first.” The lady found herself quite amusing and continued to chuckle all the way up to the next floor.

Sherlock scowled.

“Stop your grumbling,” Molly began when they were alone again, “and help me push.”

“I’m not grumbling,” he trailed off, “I’m just surprised.”

“Surprised we got caught?” She grinned, face scrunched up so much her eyes became two little slits.

He nodded, looking off into space. “Very unexpected.”

“Well, it’s not the end of the world,” Molly began, although Sherlock was losing focus. “I’m sure Mrs. Davis is not hellbent on ruining your reputation as a suave and brooding detective”

“I know. I think it’s quite the opposite in fact.”

Molly tilted her to the side with a one-shoulder shrug. “I guess… Now on the count of three, push.”

_One, two, three._


End file.
